


The Trick Is To Keep Breathing

by thinkpink20



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Is this going to be some moral sharing tale that makes me see things in a new light?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trick Is To Keep Breathing

The light in Wilson's apartment is grey. He thinks at first it must be dawn but then realises it's hardly even the end of the day, light just closing in towards midnight.

He must have fallen asleep in front of the TV; _The Golden Girls_ is on, the repartition of fake laughter echoing through his living room. Wilson thinks it must have been that that woke him up, then he hears an impatient knock at the door.

"I'm knocking your door down and you're languishing on the can."

Wilson steps aside, lets House in. He rubs at his eyes, trying to orientate himself.

"I wasn't in the bathroom, I was asleep."

"If that's your excuse for jerking off to _The Golden Girls,_ it's poor, Wilson."

House is already at the fridge, pulling out a beer.

"What are you doing here?"

"And hello to you, too."

House drops his cane then sprawls himself out on the couch with very little room left for anyone else. Wilson tries to fit into the tiny gap available.

"What time is it?"

"Time you stopped watching granny porn," House says, flicking through the Tivo. Wilson thinks he spots a tremor in House's fingers, wonders whether this time it's too much alcohol or too much vicodin.

"Did I invite you over?"

"No, and I'm wounded," House says, all dramatic hand gestures and eyebrow lifts. He looks tired, strung out. And Wilson knows how he feels.

"The last time I invited you over, you threw up on my floor."

House smiles briefly at the memory, just a quirk at the edges of his lips, eyes showing something akin to pride. "And ever since then I've just been calling round whether you like it or not."

Wilson is proud of the half smile, however _half_ it is.

House finds _The L Word_ (recorded for just such an occasion; Wilson isn't actually as interested in the show as he is in House's reaction to it) and they sit in silence whilst it plays. Wilson thinks it's thinly veiled soft core titillation for the people too cheap to put their credit card details online but House actually seems to enjoy the plotline. Which isn't saying much for a man who can spend hours in front of _Prescription Passion_ without going mad.

"I couldn't sleep," House eventually says. Lesbian A is shouting at lesbian B about betraying her to her boss and it takes Wilson a second to realise what House has said.

"Did you try an extra vicodin?"

There is more silence; so much that eventually Wilson is forced to tear himself away from the lesbians and look at House. He is running a hand over his forehead; Wilson's inner House gesture-dictionary tells him that this means 'nerves'. Something bubbles and fizzes in Wilson's stomach.

"I need to get off," House eventually says. His voice is quiet, low. It suits the darkness of the room. And there goes that thing in Wilson's stomach again, part excitement, part nerves.

He knows that he has to make this move, _always_ has to. Sometimes House knows what he needs but won't go after it; it's always that way with this particular topic. 

Wilson reaches over (ignores the babbling lesbians) and takes House's hand away from his forehead. He holds it on House's lap until House gives in and looks over at him.

Internally, Wilson is threatening House not to say anything about the hand holding.

"What?" House eventually asks. As though he doesn't know what’s about to happen. As though he _didn't_ just tell Wilson this was what he wanted.

"C'mere, House."

House leans over with as much faux reluctance as he deems the moment to warrant. For denial purposes after; 'It wasn't me, Your Honour, I was tricked into it.'

Wilson kisses him gently. House's lips are chapped and sore from the first few weeks of bitter New Jersey winter but they feel good; warm and grateful. Wilson lets go of the hand, moves his fingers up into House's hair and the noise of the busy lesbians fades quietly into the background.

\-------------------

When Wilson opens his eyes, he sees the room is pale yellow. The sunlight is weak but the curtains are thin; Amber used to like to be woken up by the light in the morning before the alarm clock.

On the patch of bed next to him, House is snoring.

The sound is like a reminder; though Wilson isn't sure what it's a reminder _of._ On the whole he likes to hear House snore; it means he's relaxed, lost to the world. It means he's almost being quiet, which is the most Wilson can ask for, he supposes.

There is a patch of bed between them that is still damp, and Wilson's stomach is still sticky and half dried. He'll shower, but not until he's given House a few more hours to sleep. He used to be uncomfortable with his wives after sex, but he and House are both men, which makes it somehow different. He doesn't have to grab a washcloth or jump for the shower; they've seen each other in worse predicaments than this. 

House is sleeping on his side, lying on his bad thigh. Wilson wants to shift him over slightly, take the weight off so that he won't pay for it quite as much when he wakes but moving House now would startle him and that wouldn't be fair. He settles for reaching over his side of the bed and slipping a hand inside House's jeans pocket (left lying in a mess on the floor where Wilson had peeled them off last night) and retrieving the vicodin. No sense in making House scramble for it when he wakes.

Wilson is just about to turn over and try to go back for an hour when the bed shifts suddenly beside him. He watches House wake, eyes flickering open and teeth gritting in an instant snarl of pain.

The eyes shut again quickly. Wilson knows what House is doing; counting from one to ten. His own vague memories of real pain (broken arm when he was seven, falling drunken at medical school) let him imagine the minute intricacies of this moment; instant pain, instant panic. He knows (sees) that even after months, _years_ with these sensations, House still gets that reactionary burble of panic in his gut when something so strong, so _alien_ spikes in his brain. 

Wilson almost feels the bile that must be rising in House's throat.

"Looking for these?" Wilson asks, even though House hasn't even made a move to open his eyes again yet.

"Thanks."

The sound of a familiar cap being popped off, the rattle of a tablet against the tube. Wilson tries not to listen.

When it becomes clear that House is too bad to lie still, Wilson throws guilty glances at him as he sits up on the side of the bed (tries not to notice the strong muscles flexing across his shoulders, tries not to feel an instant stab of arousal). His hands are braced on the mattress, trembling slightly (from the rigidity or the pain, Wilson's not sure) and his breathing is slightly out.

After a moment, Wilson sits too, lays a soothing hand at the bottom of House's back.

"Piss off, Wilson."

And then he's left alone in the bed listening to the rhythmic thump of the cane as House paces from living room to kitchen, living room to kitchen.

\-------------

The next night, Wilson goes to House.

It is unspoken, that he is allowed to do this. If House comes to him one night, Wilson can show the same weakness the next night. He isn't allowed to do it any other night, unless he's just going around there for beer and pizza and Monster Trucks marathons. Which he still does, often.

Their system might be unspoken, but it works.

Or at least it does most nights.

"Not going to happen, give up."

House rudely pushes Wilson's hand away (scrapes it on the harsh metal of the zip) and does up his flies.

"You didn't give it long enough," Wilson says. 

"My dick, my body; I'm telling you, it isn't going to happen."

He pops another vicodin, practically daring Wilson to point out that they're the cause.

After that they sit in silence. Yankee Workshop is on; a guy with a beard is talking about the wonders of a lathe.

Wilson feels guilty for still being horny. He knows he shouldn't, but he does. He still wants House's hands on him, even if House can't have the same pleasure. He tries to suppress it.

Eventually, he considers going to House's bathroom and jerking off. 

"If you're thinking of jerking off in the bathroom, think again," House says, when Wilson goes to get up.

"But - "

"Here," House says, gesturing to the space between his knees. Wilson is confused for a moment, then his sex-addled brain catches up.

He stands, faces House.

"You're such a slut," House says before unbuckling Wilson's belt, pushing his pants down and wrapping his lips around Wilson's cock.

He comes in record time.

\---------------

Sometimes Wilson likes to prove to himself it isn't all about comfort.

He goes to House when he's in the middle of a case; teasing out the difference between sarcoidosis and endocarditis and lupus.

"You know what I used to do when I was a teenager and my Rubiks cube was eluding me?"

It is late and the light in House's office is almost blood red from the winter sun sinking in the distance. But still there is enough light for Wilson to see House roll his eyes as though he's heard this one before. Which he hasn't.

"Is this going to be some moral sharing tale that makes me see things in a new light?"

Wilson approaches House's desk, takes the stupid oversized tennis ball from him and places it back on the desk. "I used to put it away and do something else for a while."

And when Wilson leans over, a hand on either arm of the chair House is sitting on, a smile creeps onto House's face. "Are you my 'something else'?" he asks.

Wilson nods.

The kiss probably has too much force for an office setting (they generally don't do it at work, both wanting to keep their balls. And their jobs). But House returns the pressure, sitting forward in his seat to meet Wilson halfway and swiping a tongue over invading lips. Wilson feels a flutter in his stomach, feels the whiteboard just melting away.

"Not here," House eventually says, then pushes Wilson back whilst he stands up and grabs his cane. "Come on."

Wilson is glad that it's so late that the corridors are empty, thinks they must look suspicious, House charging along and Wilson following in his wake, touching his lips with slightly shaking fingers and cheeks that are flushed and red.

House takes them to the shower room. There is a lock on the main door and as he clicks it, Wilson starts stripping.

"I usually pay to watch that sort of thing."

When Wilson turns around, House is leaning back against the door. He doesn't show any sign of still running a mental DDx and Wilson feels vaguely proud.

"You want me to go slowly?"

House just nods.

It's not the most graceful thing Wilson has ever done and his fingers twitch briefly to clean up the mess of clothes on the bench when he's finished. But the way House is looking at him makes him forget.

"I think I'm going to come if you keep staring at me like that."

House smiles. "That's the idea, Jimmy."

He discards the cane in a suitably subtle way and then holds Wilson's face in both of his hands before kissing him soundly. To be the main subject of House's attention has always been slightly fascinating; daunting but fascinating. And it usually makes Wilson's head spin, so he gratefully holds on to House's hips. He doesn't push against him too much, careful of the balance issue, but just enough to let him know what he wants.

House gets it. House always gets it.

They fuck in the shower, Wilson pressed up against the cool aqua tiles and fingers grasping but slipping on the wet surface. He shuts his eyes from the constant stream of water above him and gasps against the wall in front of him as House uses something nameless to slick him with from behind. The feel of House's fingers inside him makes him groan.

"Shut up; this place isn't soundproof."

But there is a smile in House's voice, which probably only means he wants him to be louder. Wilson gives him what he wants the next time House hits his prostrate.

"Jesus," Wilson hears himself say as House buries himself as deep as he can go.

House nibbles on the back of Wilson's neck and causes him to shiver. "Wasn't that the guy your lot killed?"

Wilson actually laughs. "You're being anti-Semitic during sex?"

"If I was being anti-Semitic," House says, biting firmly for a second time and causing Wilson to grip pointlessly at the wall, "I wouldn't do this, would I?"

Then he expertly hits Wilson's prostrate again.

Whoever designed the showers and gave them handrails on one wall was clearly not aware how much this would aid House's sex life, Wilson assumes. They were probably a genius though, enabling this sort of activity during work hours. Wilson grips onto House's hand that is holding his dick and squeezes to let him know that he isn't the only one scheduled for an orgasm in this equation. House mutters something utterly filthy in his ear and Wilson feels himself blush, letting go and enabling House to get on with the job. 

He comes when he feels lips on his neck. Its like a firework show behind his eyelids.

\-------------

House gets the epiphany whilst Wilson is towel drying his hair. He catches that sudden faraway look, the narrowing of the eyes. As soon as he sees it, he picks up the cane lying beside him and holds it out.

"Good work, Wilson," House says, taking it from him in a distracted sort of way and charges out of the shower room.

As the door bangs shut behind him, Wilson smiles.


End file.
